Down here, having access to a pool is not only a privilege, but also a deep and needful must for wellness of being, happiness, and overall relief for whatever ever ails you. See, Dante, in his Inferno, describes the 7th circle of hell as teeming with rivers of boiling fire, deserts of burning sand, and scorching rain that pours from the sky. In the South, we call this cataclysmic event “summer.”
It all starts around May. This is when perfectly reasonable and respectable people are driven to their own kind of slow boiling insanity. It sneaks up on them like a swarm of sand gnats starved since early spring. It starts as a simmer, this unyielding heat, a tease, a tickle that gets you going outside in the morning, but then causes you to make a hasty retreat back in by noon.
There’s the creak of the ceiling fan that taunts you overnight while you try to sleep on top of the sheet. There are the bugs, the lizards, and the marsh crabs that let themselves in, without knocking first, to escape the scalding sun, scaring you half to death. There’s the lifeless, flat, hot air that rushes through the holes in your screens and under your doors, leaving a $600 electricity bill that makes you want to let out a bloodcurdling scream.
It's so hot that snakes don't hiss, they yawn. Gators don’t flex their jaws, they sleep it off. Birds don't sing, they squawk before plucking your last Cheetos straight out of your hand. Humans don't leave their homes unless it's to drive to another structure packed full of equally cold and manufactured frigid air to just sit and stay awhile, reticent to leave. Unless, of course, there is a hole somewhere filled with water. That watery haven doesn't have to be anything special, just something deep enough in which you can submerge most of your body parts. Add the allure of a frozen strawberry daiquiri or two, then, of course, we're all in.
The first swimming pool dates back 5,000 years ago in the Pakistani settlement of Mohenjo-Daro. Most of the smart people agree that this big tank of stockpiled rainwater was, for the most part, used for religious purposes, purification and renewal of body and spirit. But then came the Romans, and water – the very essence and source of all life – meant wealth in the form of waterfalls, elaborate fish ponds and snazzy jacuzzis nestled in ornate gardens with free-flowing wine, women and song.
I know. We all tried to stay awake while we studied up on Roman baths in a history class or two, where the lot of us balked at the idea of public bathing. Who does that? Am I right? Who willingly disrobes, washes up, and waxes philosophical next to a perfect stranger sans clothes about politics, the price of pottery or both? It left us asking the burning question: Were the Romans really that civilized after all?
Now flash forward two thousand or so years. We have all been to a pool where one look to the left holds a toddler bobbing in floaties and a bloated swim diaper and a look to the right finds a plastic tube of air in the shape of a shark the size of Texas heading straight our way. Haven't we all glanced at the opaque film of communal sunscreen and horseflies swirling belly-up in a tandem, hypnotic state only to ease our way in while offering up a silent prayer to the chlorine gods? Why? Why put yourself and your plastic cup of warm wine in the crosshairs of flying Frisbees, repeated shouts of “Marco Polo,” and near-naked strangers wanting to talk about politics, the price of pottery or both?
Because it's 101 degrees out with a heat index of 116; that's why! And being civilized has
nothing do with anything – whether it's a fancy pool, a 20 x 40 foot enclosure inflated by air, or a garden hose and an oversized bucket – when it's that godforsaken hot out there. I don’t know about you, but I have seen the heads of normally sweet and loving children spin with bared teeth. I’ve watched conscientious mothers take to their beds with doors locked and pints of ice cream the only things they let in. I have witnessed overgrown yards with beer bottles strewn about, and grown men submerged in baby pools of tepid hose water and their own salty tears. So, it is no surprise that when it comes to cooling off during the summertime in Southeast Georgia, we simply don’t hesitate. We jump right in.
Well, except for me.
My husband, who has Yankee blood by the way, still doesn't understand why I tiptoe into a pool of water even during the hottest time of the year down here. Yes, the water is a heck of a lot warmer than bathwater, seeing as the air is hotter than all of the nine circles of hell combined. I will agree with him there. To me though, there has, is, and always will be more than one way to get into the water, no matter the month or what the thermometer reads outside.
You can be a jumper,
an easer-inner,
a toe toucher,
a belly flopper,
or a flat-out screwdriver.
Some dive head on. A fair share plunge in feet first. Others may Lipton Tea-it. Quite a few don't go near the water at all, they just soak it all in from the pool decking with a fan around cocktail hour. No matter if it's 101 with a heat index of 116 or 80 with a cool breeze and a fading sun. In the end, what do we really know about preaching civility, especially when overly hot under the collar? The only thing we do know is “when in Rome,” follow your own flow. Like water, that's where life comes from.
See y’all ’round the pool this summer.
